Wooden spoons make very good friends,
Perfect for soup and stew and porridge.
They’ll help you make pudding and help you forage.
They stir and ladle and allow you to slurp–
But a wooden spoon should never hurt, (even goblins sing their worth!)
But some may think a spoon should spank,
Or they’ll treat it like a common plank,
But rue they will that lonesome day–
When all their spoons break and fade away.
And leave them lonely, soulless and gray.
For wooden spoons, they hold a charm,
A magic wrought from hand and arm,
They’re carved with care from trees so wise,
Whose roots dig deep, where secrets lie.
Each grain, a story etched in time,
A whispered spell in rhythmic rhyme.
But those who wield them with cruel intent,
Shall find their warmth and spirit spent,
For spoons are bound by unseen ties,
To earth, the sky, and ancient eyes.
They dance in pots with joyous glee,
But turn away from tyranny.
One conjurer, they say, learned this truth too late–
Her spoons all splintered, snapped by fate,
No potion brewed, no cauldron stirred,
Her magic waned, her chants unheard.
She sought in vain for wood to mend,
But found no spoon, nor faithful friend.
For spoons are keepers of the hearth.
They stir the soul, they shape our heart,
Of meals made with loving hands,
They bind good folk to their land.
And when they break, when wrongly used,
The house itself will feel abused.
So treasure well your wooden friends,
Their rounded curves, their sturdy ends.
For they will serve with steadfast grace,
In every dish, in every place.
But if you treat them ill or cruel,
Beware the fate of the foolish fool.
For when your spoons depart your hearth,
They take with them the home’s warm heart,
And leave behind a shadowed place,
Where laughter fades without a trace.
So honor those who stir the pot,
And in their care, you’ll find your lot.
Category: Grindstone
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A Spoon is for Stirring
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Midnight Wraiths
Midnight wraiths shared my campfire,
Waiting for my eyes to close, hoping (I assumed)
that I might soon expire.
But I said, “No! I'm a healthy fellow. Pray, share with me your stories.
Mine, I'll share till dawn's sweet stare, if you’ll but do me kind.”
The wraiths replied with epic rhymes, as their kind is wont to do.
And I listened well to their great spells, and then I wove my own.
I spoke of trails and mountain tops and crooks and creags,
And creeks and trees and moss and leaves and pleasant things.
The wraiths hissed, “Yes,” much impressed and bade, “please do continue!”
So on I spoke about Wild Folk, and Little People I call friends,
Until the darkest shade, who had yet to sing,
Stepped forth into the flames.
His voice was rasp, a dry keep fast, and his story I now shall share,
For his was a sad sweet lament, echoing yet fallow.
He longed for love, forlorn and lost, a heart that once had been,
But now it beat within the dark, where shadows alone defend.
He spoke of days when he was whole, with skin and bone and breath,
Of a maiden fair with obsidian hair, who loved him still in death.
But jealous hands had twisted fate conspiring to rend them apart,
And now he roams midnight’s veil, a wraith with a hollow heart.
Our fire flared and flickered, ‘cross faces long turned to shade,
And as he spoke, still more wraiths drew near, engrossed and unafraid.
For his raspy words held common truths, a sorrow they all might share,
The pain of love that time forgot, a grief they never dared.
He told of nights ‘neath living stars, where once he held her near,
Of whispered vows and gentle sighs that now were lost to fear.
And as our fire’s light burned low, his voice began to fade,
A ghostly echo of the past, a love he could not save.
The wraiths ‘round our embers sighed, a chorus soft and low,
And in their eyes, I saw their tears that long had ceased to flow.
For they too knew the bitter ache of love that time had torn,
And in the darkest hours of our night, they mourned what they had worn.
I felt their pain, their longing deep, and in my heart, I swore,
I’d carry forth their tales of woe, to let their voices soar.
So in early dawn’s first gentle light, I bade them all goodbye,
And as the wraiths slipped to mist, I felt their silent cries.
But in their place, a peace remained, a gift of memories past,
And as I walked the morning’s path, I knew their stories would always last.
For every step upon the trail, each whisper in the trees,
Would carry forth the wraiths’ lament, upon each autumn’s breeze.
And so I wander still today, ‘neath Brother Sun and Mother Moon,
With tales of wraiths and love’s lament woven upon life's bitter loom.
For in the heart of every night, where shadows softly tread,
There lies the wraiths’ sweet rhymes and songs, and all the love they lived. -
Fae Aduin
In shadows thick where shadows breed,
Fae Aduin writhe and hunt and feed–
On dreams unspoken, thoughts half-made,
on embers bright and hopes unswayed.
They thrive on warmth they cannot feel,
on joy they choke and swiftly steal;
To those who wander, lost and dim,
they whisper, crooning dark dark hymns.
With fingers black and sinewed thin,
they snatch at hearts from deep within,
Leaving but an empty shell, a hollowed husk,
a lightless well.
In caves where sun has never dwelt,
‘neath twisted roots where earth has knelt,
They plot and murmur, curse and frown,
dragging hapless souls down down down.
Once, in ages known to none
(but crumbling stones and stars undone)
The Aduin supped merrily on mortal fears.
They’d pull the breath from poet’s lips,
drain painter’s brush of hues and quips,
Devour thoughts uncast in form—
no hope untouched, no dream unborn.
For though old tales all fade to dust,
Children know, as faeries must,
the peril shadows breathe and stir.
Fae Aduin tread where moonlight shuns,
their shadows silent, swift they pass—
and leave in wake a chill that runs
through marrow, thought, and shivering skin,
a touch that stills, and strikes within.
And they belong to Her and Him,
the Darkened Shadows of Light’s disdain,
They loathe each dawn, each star, each flame
And all that dare defy their name.
In that place where all brightness fades,
all colors wilt, all kindness wanes,
And hope itself, so rare and frail,
lies gutted, shackled, bound in chains.
So wise men claim, to soothe their night,
that monsters dwell in stories bright.
But all who’ve heard their hushed refrain
know Fae Aduin still stalk their prey,
For in the dark where secrets keep,
they stir and watch while dreamers sleep.
And once your spark catches their eye,
beware your doom it waits nearby. -
From Snow
I had heard tales of the First Giants, myths whispered in smokey fire-lit halls and murmured beneath breath on long winter nights. But no tale, no song nor legend could have prepared me for the moment I first laid eyes upon one. It was somewhere in the Western Ranges, a fortnight south of Fistfire, where the jagged peaks stand like broken teeth against an endless gray sky. I was scouting an overland route to the high plains of the Northern Drift, mapping the treacherous passes where no roads dared carve their way.
Understand now, that the high mountains are a forgotten place. Untamed and wild, they rise like the bones of the world itself, towering against the sky where few dare to tread. A vast cathedral of snow-locked peaks and shadowed valleys, a place where time moves slow, and the wind carries secrets older than men. No king seeks to rule here, for the land is sovereign unto itself, bound by laws not written by mortals but whispered in the howling storms and shifting snowdrifts. Even the Old Emperor, in his fickle wisdom, turns a blind eye to that place, for his banners and armies would find no purchase on those craggy heights, where frost grips rock and talus like a jealous lover.
It is an alpine wilderness of thin air and tempestuous weather, where the skies boil with dark clouds, and the breath of the gods stirs the mountain’s wrath. Here, no man makes his home, for the land is a mercurial host, offering no solace to weary travelers. The winds scream through jagged passes, twisting and swirling ripe with ancient spirits lost in the storms, and the snow falls in thick, heavy curtains obscuring all but the nearest step.
Even the eagles, those lords of the sky, shun these peaks, their sharp eyes turned elsewhere, for there is little life to sustain them. The game is scarce, and the creatures that do live here are strange and elusive, pale things that move like shadows across the ice, their tracks vanishing and secret. It is a place where silence reigns, save for the groaning of glaciers and the crack of ice splitting ‘neath unseen weight. The air itself is thin and it bites at your lungs, making each breath a struggle, as if the very mountains themselves resent the presence of intruders.
And yet, there is a majesty in that forgotten place, a terrible beauty that can only be known by those who venture beyond the realms of the known world. The peaks stand eternal, draped in their icy cloaks, watching over the earth with a cold, indifferent gaze. They are timeless, these mountains, unbowed by the passage of years or the rise and fall of empires. Here, where even the stars seem distant and faint, one can feel the weight of eternity pressing down, the sense that these high places ignore the world of men and will remain long after we and our cousins have perished.
The high mountains are a place of ghosts and legends, where ancient spirits are said to dwell, trapped in the frost, waiting for the day when the world grows cold enough to free them. Travelers speak of hearing strange whispers on the wind, voices carried down from the peaks, but no one knows who—or what—calls from those frozen heights. Perhaps it is the mountains themselves, old and restless, whispering their secrets to those foolish enough to listen. Or perhaps it is simply the wind, mocking those who believe they can conquer a place that belongs to none.
A torn fragment from an old map of the Northern Continent.
I had heard these tales before, yarns spun with pipe and pint in hand. But standing now in the shadow of the Western Ranges, I found the truth far colder and more unforgiving than any watchman’s midnight tale. It had been snowing for three days, relentless and unyielding. The snow fell in heavy, suffocating drifts, each flake a cold whisper, piling upon itself until the world was nothing but a white, silent tomb. My companions, sensible folk of the lowlands, had turned back long before, their spirits worn thin by the relentless cold. I alone pressed forward, stubborn as the mountains themselves, my breath a fog before me, my body wrapped in furs that did little to ward off the gnawing bite of the wind.
The storm had swallowed the world whole—sky and earth melded into a single seamless void. Yet as I trudged forward, sinking into the snow to my knees with every step, a strange stillness fell over the land. The wind ceased its howling torment, and in its absence, the silence pressed down upon me like a chapel’s weight. It was then that I saw him.
Through the veil of snow and shadow, a figure began to take form—towering, tremendous, ancient. At first, I thought it a trick of the light, the snow playing cruel games with my weary eyes. But no, the shape grew clearer, solid and imposing against the swirling storm. He stood at the edge of a frozen ridge, a sentinel of the old world, his immense form carved from the very ice itself. His shoulders rose like the cliffs that guard the Northern Drift, his limbs thick as ancient pines, and his skin—if one could call it that—was pale, almost translucent, as though the cold itself had sculpted him from glacier and frost.
His breath came in slow, thunderous clouds, rolling from his mouth like smoke from the volcanic fires above Pyretown, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—twin shards of sapphire, glinting with a cold, hard distant light. They gazed out over the vast, frozen expanse, as though seeing far beyond our world, into realms where winter forever reigned. There was a stillness to him, a heaviness in the air around him, as if the very mountain held its breath in his presence.
For a moment, I stood frozen, not by the cold, but the sheer awe of the sight before me. A First Giant, a being from a time long forgotten, before the first men had crossed the Sola Sea to wage their conquests. A massive creature of legend, Eriaheim’s most beloved child, whose very existence defied the warmth of my life and light. And I tell you now, I could feel the ancient power radiating from him, his cold sinking deeper into my bones as though the air itself had turned stone.
I dared not move, dared not breathe, for fear any motion might shatter the fragile silence that bound us. The storm seemed to pause in reverence, and the world became still, as though time itself had stopped to bear witness.
Then, without warning, his great head turned. Slowly, deliberately, his gaze fell upon me, and I felt the weight of centuries in those eyes. They were not unkind, but neither were they forgiving. Eyes of winter—cold, indifferent, eternal. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a hammer blow against the quiet. The air between us seemed to thin, and in that moment, I felt so very small, insignificant, a fleeting breath of warmth in a world of endless cold.
As he spoke, his voice was like glaciers grinding against rock, the deep rumble of ancient ice shifting beneath groaning earth. “Lo!—a wind doth blow…” His words rolled out like the storm itself, carried on the wind that had moments before howled through the crags and peaks. They were not meant for me, I knew that much. I am no fool. No mortal ear was meant to hear the thoughts of such a being. And yet, they echoed in the emptiness between us.
His words twisted through the air, woven with the very essence of winter’s breath. I could not move, could not tear my eyes from him, as the Giant spoke of winds that raged from west to east, of icy fingers that tendered frozen branches and of a life long wearied by relentless cold. His lament was carried not in sorrow, but in resignation—an acceptance of a fate bound to mountain and wind, where even Brother Sun’s warmth could not reach.
As he continued, I felt the earth beneath me tremble, as though it, too, listened to his ancient song. The roots of the mountain groaned, crumbling sugared snow whispered across the frozen drifts, and the cold seemed to press tighter around me, as if urging me to listen, to understand.
“And still I feel a frozen stone… having moved past spring’s season, wretched winter close behind… always chasing.” The words chilled me to my core, not from fear, but from the weight of the truth they carried. Here was a being trapped in an endless cycle, a creature who had watched the world thaw and freeze time and time again, and yet he alone remains, long after familiar life has expired and all else has moved on.
I did not speak, I dared not, for what words could I offer? What warmth could I provide to one who had known time’s embrace as he?
So I listened, cautious but curious, the very air shivering, as he continued. This tremendous creature, more monolith than man, seemed to me, to carry the weight of ages upon his broad shoulders.
“West now east… icy fingers tender frozen branches.” He gestured with a hand the size of a tree trunk, his fingers splayed wide as if to show me the very winds that heeded his call. His words hung in the air, the cold wind wrapping itself around each syllable, whispering them back to me in a voice not unlike his own.
“Tendered brightly flame and fire,” he sang, and I watched as his massive hand traced the empty sky. “Their blaze unannounced thaws—This crucial heat makes hot our blood, defrost my weary life’s cold syrup.”
He paused then, and for a moment I saw something strange in those frozen eyes. A longing, perhaps, for warmth, for the life and fire he could never fully grasp. His words, though powerful, trembled more fiercely, a crack forming in glacial ice.
“And still,” he rumbled, “I feel a frozen stone—having moved past spring’s season, wretched winter close behind, whose frosts forever follow.” He bowed his great head, his breath misting in front of him, and I could see the cold that had taken root in his soul, a frost that no flame nor ember could hope to melt.
The wind stirred again, high above, whipping clouds into dark shapes that swirled and twisted like mages working some secret spell. He lifted his gaze, his voice growing sharp with bitterness. “And what a peculiar wind up-high still blowing, west then east, makes secret the clouds these cruel occult apprentices. Part! Let sing your golden priest!”
His voice rose, commanding, yet it was tinged with resignation, as though he knew the sun’s light would never answer him. The sun had fled this land long ago, leaving aching cold in its wake.
“But I resign… bitter and tepid,” he whispered, his voice softening. “And would repent my careless conception, had I the heat.”
There it was—the very heart of his sorrow, laid bare before me, and I am not ashamed to admit my heart ached for this Great Giant, immense and ancient, bound to the cold bones of the world, shouldering the weight of his creation like a yoke no age could lift. A being tied to a time long gone, a relic of frost and stone who yearned for a warmth he could never know. His words, though mighty, drifted into the wind like scattered flurries, lost to the sky, fading with the faint sigh of a dying flame.
I stood there, silent witness to his sorrow, watching as the storm renewed swallowing him whole, and then he disappeared back into the snows from which he’d appeared—
I am Kofi Trachamon, a free ranger and scout by trade, and at times, a sword for those whose coin too often out weighs my honor. I hail from the Northern Continent, where the winds still whisper forgotten things, where man must survive by wit and mettle. And this—this is my tale, as I have lived it.